


all the characteristics of a human being / the coldness I have always felt leaves me

by silver_and_exact



Series: I feel like shit but look great [2]
Category: American Psycho - All Media Types
Genre: AU in which Patrick doesn't kill Paul, Angst, Blow Jobs, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Fix-It, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, That Whole Yale Thing, slight AU in which Paul knows Patrick is Patrick & not Marcus Halberstram, that's what the book/movie/musical is totally about guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7002169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_and_exact/pseuds/silver_and_exact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul Allen keeps falling asleep on Patrick's couch.  Patrick accidentally tells him something truthful about himself over dinner that (thankfully) doesn't involve recreational homicide.  Also, Patrick's pricey furniture is uncomfortable.</p><p>Can be read as a stand-alone fic or as a continuation of "our lifestyles are probably comparable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the characteristics of a human being / the coldness I have always felt leaves me

Paul Allen is sleeping on Patrick’s couch again.

Patrick’s not sure how this became a thing, but it’s the third consecutive Friday night that this has happened ever since that first post-Texarkana brush with mortality, and all in all he’s strangely pretty okay with it.

 

It's a novel experience, since people don’t really come to his apartment.  If they’re invited, sure, they might be fearful or flattered enough to risk a visit.  And if they’re paid they turn up right on schedule.  But Paul Allen just hopped into his cab and followed him back to his place like it was a perfectly ordinary, perfectly safe course of action.  Like they were  _friends_ , even.

And although Patrick prides himself on how normal his façade can be, he’s still semi-realistic about it.  He knows he comes across as a little… off, maybe in ways that other people can’t quite pinpoint. Sometimes he strokes his own ego by musing that perhaps the problem is that he seems _too_ perfect, but he knows that’s not it, really.  It's a momentary predatory flash, a slip of the mask.  Nothing major.  Not really enough for reasonable doubt to creep into the picture.  Even so, his place is hardly the ideal location for a sleepover.  

But despite that, here he is, putting a pillow behind Paul Allen’s head instead of pressing it over his face, and it’s possibly the weirdest thing that’s ever happened in his apartment.  Paul’s got a nearly-empty highball glass grasped precariously between his fingertips, his arm falling over the edge of the sofa with a carelessness that’s in danger of becoming routine.  Patrick pries the glass free and sets it down safely on the table.  Paul’s sleeping with his mouth open.  He doesn’t usually do that.  He thinks that maybe this means Paul has a cold.  Patrick stares, shrugs, and wanders back to his own uneventful sleep.

Patrick makes a pot of lemon tea before Paul’s prearranged cab gets there in the morning rather than his usual coffee.  Paul raises his eyebrows, says nothing, and drinks a cup, the faint trace of a smile flickering at the corners of his lips as he walks out the door.  

As soon as the other man clears the doorway, Patrick grimaces.  What the fuck is wrong with him?  He hates to think negatively like this, but maybe he's finally exhausted the limits of violence.  He’s tried to be diverse with his modus operandi, but there’s no way around it: no matter what he does, it’s still getting repetitious.  

But that kind of talk’s for quitters.  Next Friday he resolves he’ll get his act together.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The week goes by in a blur of cocaine, mergers, and four-figure dinner bills, new pocket squares and halfheartedly-gutted homeless men.  Clubs shutting down, clubs opening, a couple dozen bottles of Cristal.  Teenage hookers with their skin cut off in small, nonlethal strips and fed to them by hand—it’s times like these he wishes he had a basement, it’d be much more atmospheric.  

Then Friday rolls around and he’s at Dorsia with Paul Allen and he’s got absolutely no clue how they ended up there, he just knows that the reservation is in Paul’s name, a fact that's inherently offensive.  Patrick prefers to be a self-made man when acquiring dinner reservations, but he has to admit that he’s actually somewhat glad he got in before the restaurant’s inevitable decline and wholesale evacuation.  He’s sure that it will look like absolutely nothing of importance within a few months or even weeks, he's seen it happen: a graffiti-blotted sign, a row of broken windows, another king-sized garbage bag to house the city’s castoffs.  Once again, he’s staggered by the world’s capacity for irrelevance, the constant struggle to avoid being overwritten.

Now Paul Allen is staring at him from across the table as he’s speaking.  This is somewhat confusing because up until now Patrick hadn’t realized that he’d been speaking at all, but he knows that he must have said something.  This happens to him sometimes.  He empties his champagne flute a little faster than is considered socially tactful, connotations of alcoholism and problematically low impulse control be damned, and braces for the impact of whatever it is he's blurted out.

“Do you really feel like that?” Paul asks, brow furrowed, and Patrick panics, his mind racing to come up with the most logical means of concealing his loss of time and self-awareness.  He tries to be blasé, a bit curt but not excessively petulant.  He doesn’t _feel_ like anything.  He feels like a fucking ice sculpture.  He feels like a blunt instrument.  

“Do I really feel... like  _what_?”  and the line comes out exactly how he'd wanted it to, subzero and incurably bored.  Patrick becomes marginally less tense.

“Forget it,” Paul says ambiguously, his expression worried, but mildly, thoughtfully so, not worried in a way that would suggest that he’d told him about the whole skinning-underage-prostitutes thing, which is good, because there are some things that Patrick would prefer to keep to himself.  

Distractedly, not wanting to push the issue and make it obvious that he's not all there, Patrick shrugs and downs another glass of wine.

Usually (and he can’t believe he even has a set of criteria for “usually” in this situation) Paul drinks too much and ends up passed out on Patrick's couch, but this time Patrick’s the one who overdoes it.  With his vision doubling up, his thoughts swimming murkily past one another, Patrick's grasp on reality is even more muddled than it usually is, and Paul has to physically steer him into the taxi he’s hailed for them outside.  They end up at his apartment, as usual, and he must look perplexed, (He thought the rule was that you took drunk people back to your own place?  Or was that just with drunk girls?), because Paul elaborates.  

"Just so you know where you are.  You’re, uh… a little out of it.”

Patrick thankfully has the sense to keep his mouth shut about all the times he's broken into Paul's apartment.  They were even there together once, although Paul was asleep.  

All he does is mumble benignly, "…'m not drunk."

Paul laughs sharply at this, combing a hand through his hair.  "Sure you're not, Bateman.  Sure you're not."

“How's it that you're so sober, then?”   

“Pacing, Bateman,” Paul says, smiling, “Pacing.”

Paul is escorting him into his bedroom when he realizes that he finally got into Dorsia and he wasted the whole evening drinking.  How embarrassing.  He didn’t even eat anything.  

“That whole place is going to fucking die, you know,” Patrick says, and suddenly it’s hilarious.  “Just a bunch of bag ladies… eating garbage in the kitchen.  And we’ll pretend we never even  _wanted_ reservations.  Everything gets erased."

“Patrick.  You are going to drink a glass of water, and then you’re going to go to sleep.”

Patrick is simultaneously startled by the use of his first name and the authoritative tone he’s never heard Paul Allen use before.  The guy was always so fucking amiable.  What really startles him, though, is that he’s completely fine with being told what to do.  More than fine, if he’s going to be honest.  

 

He tries to sit up and Paul pushes him back into the bed gently but firmly.  Paul Allen’s hand is on his chest and this is not a scenario he’s at all planned ahead for.  Before he can overthink it he grabs the other man’s arm, holding it in place.  Unsure of how to proceed, or even how he  _wants_ to proceed, he pauses dumbly, and then the two of them are caught up in some kind of weird suspended animation, just looking at each other.  An indeterminate amount of time passes.  Then Paul abruptly shakes free of his grasp and turns toward the door, saying with a wry, unplaceable half-smile, “Go to sleep, Patrick.”

Bewildered, he does so.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night feeling shockingly sober, if slightly disoriented.  He gets out of bed and stands up a little too quickly, triggering a very annoying headache.  Massaging his temples, he restlessly wanders through the rooms of his apartment, which are stark white and ready to be overwritten.  Sometimes he feels like he could walk right through them.  

Again, Paul Allen is sleeping on his couch.  He’s still wearing most of his suit, though the jacket is folded on a chair and his shoes are lined up neatly alongside one another under the table.  Studying him, Patrick thinks that they could probably fit into the same clothes.  Hell, he could probably kill Paul and take up residence in his apartment, live his life, and would anyone even know the difference?  Usually this kind of thought is empowering, or at the very least funny, but right now it’s just depressing.

Paul’s eyelids flutter open.  Patrick, alarmed, unconsciously mimes the other man’s earlier actions, resting his hand just below the knot on his tie (which for some reason he’s still wearing, albeit loosened) to keep him from getting up.  Patrick feels his mouth opening to speak, his lips parting, his teeth separating, his tongue uncleaving from the roof of his mouth.  The whole process monitored and analyzed.  It's entirely out of his control, but then again, most things are, and he hates that.

“You know, the Soviets view homosexuality as a product of bourgeois decadence,” he blurts out informatively.  He’s pretty sure he visibly cringes after the words force themselves out of his mouth and slither around the room.

“Jesus, Bateman.  Thanks for that factoid.  I really appreciate it,” Paul says, sleepy but sardonic.  

“What exactly did I say earlier at dinner?”  Patrick presses, figuring this can’t get any worse, “When you told me to forget it?”

Paul lifts up Patrick’s hand like it’s not even attached to his body—which is a comforting concept, really—and sets it aside.  He seems much more awake now.  He sits up on the couch, frowning and kneading the feeling back into his muscles.  Patrick feels slightly insulted—his couch was damned expensive, it’s a fucking  _privilege_  to sleep on his couch.  Its comfort is secondary.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Paul says, more curious than judgmental.  “I mean, you actually don’t know?  You weren’t even drinking yet.  I mean, you were drinking, but you weren't  _drinking_.”

“What did I say?” Patrick insists, and he realizes with mild interest that his hands are shaking a little. “Sometimes I… lose track of things.”  

Paul’s expression softens.  

“You said that you were unhappy.”

“That’s it?” Patrick says, appalled.  He was really expecting something more interesting.  Something just a little bit shocking.  

“Christ, everyone’s  _unhappy_.  Some fucking confession."  

Paul raises his hands, defensive.  

“Hey, I’m not saying I think it’s a big deal.  You’re the one who forgot you said it.  That implies that it’s kind of a big deal to you, doesn’t it?”  

Patrick says nothing.  He steps forward, flexing his hands into fists.  He’s going to fucking kill him.  

Paul looks at him, unimpressed, exasperated, and not remotely threatened.  

“What are we doing here, Patrick?”

He freezes.  The first name thing again.  It’s messing him up.  

Paul Allen sighs resignedly, catches Patrick by a wrist, and pulls him down.  He trips onto the couch, their teeth crash together, Patrick splits his lip and tastes his own blood for once, which is novel.  

“Didn’t think you were the type to let the other guy make the first move, Bateman,” Paul whispers hoarsely in his ear.  

Patrick shivers, and Paul kisses him properly, pulling back to run his tongue across his split lip, and Patrick’s pretty sure this causes him to make a  _noise_.  He’s making out with Paul Allen.  Consensually.  Fuck.  Patrick wants to regain the upper hand, but it’s hard to be imposing when you’re basically sitting on someone’s lap.  For a moment Patrick is annoyed that the couch is so narrow, but then he remembers that he’s trying not to criticize his furniture, which was, again, damned expensive.  If the sofa is inadequate, then that just means he shouldn’t be trying to fuck Paul Allen on it or whatever it is he’s doing.

 

Patrick unknots Paul’s tie, and the son of a bitch is  _smirking_.  Like he knew this would happen.  Vindictively, Patrick tears a few buttons off of the other man’s shirt as he takes it off, but Paul is nonplussed.  He rolls his eyes.

 

“For christ’s sake, I’ve got  _money_ , Bateman.  By all means, fuck up my clothes.”

Patrick generally doesn’t involve himself with his socioeconomic equals, so this is new.  Patrick knows menswear―the shirt is expensive.  His pupils dilate so quickly that his vision blurs, his blood drains south so abruptly that he swears his lip slows its bleeding.  He knows, hazily, that they should probably relocate, if not for comfort, at least for practicality.  He has absurd, nightmare visions of a helicopter flying by his building, a life-flighted car crash victim and a squadron of EMTs peering in scandalized amazement through the windows.  

Then Paul wraps his fingers in his hair and pulls, and he can't think at all.   Unconsciously, like a sleepwalker, his hands wander down Paul's body, and he's distantly, objectively horrified by the whole thing, which somehow makes it more of a turn-on.  Patrick finds himself fascinated by the other man's appearance, which is so like his own but different enough to remind him that he's not imagining some kind of sexual encounter with himself (been there, done that).  What's going on is simultaneously risky and vanilla as hell, all things considered.

As he's trying to figure out exactly how he feels about all of this, his body finally loses purchase on the narrow sofa and he slides into an awkward heap on the floor, his head nearly striking the table.  He winces, and Paul laughs breathlessly.

"Sure you're sober enough?"

Patrick looks up at him from his place on the floor and says nothing.  He makes a decision.  He flashes one of his newscaster smiles, insincere and distantly violent.  He reaches toward Paul, who has stopped laughing and is staring at him with something close to incredulity as he undoes his belt and pulls his (really quite tasteful) grey suitpants away from his hips, which arch to accommodate him.

And goddamn if Paul's cock isn't a fraction bigger than his.  Typical.  Before he has enough time to weigh the pros and cons, Patrick decided he's willing to take the risk.  It's worth the look on Paul Allen's face.  And besides, he's pretty good at taking risks.  He takes him in his mouth and thinks about what he could do, how easy it would be to bite down, how the other man might get a few punches in before he bled out.

It’s not the norm for him to get off on mercy, but there’s a first time for everything.

 

 

 

 

...................

 

 

 

  
epilogue / punchline

“I was thinking, what if all of this has been a metaphor for white collar ennui and, perhaps more importantly, the level of societal dissociation that’s required to sustain the capitalist system?” Bateman muses semi-rhetorically.  “Hell, I’ve probably never even killed anyone.”

“What’s up?” mumbles Paul sleepily.

“Never mind,” sighs Patrick, and turns off the bedside light.

**Author's Note:**

> So I just saw American Psycho: the Musical (which I had mixed feelings about) and just had to dust this fic off and finally finish it--it's been floating around on my computer for an eternity. I feel like I kind of copped out on the whole porn thing at the end there, but, uh... whatevs. I'm lame & a little bit (maybe a lot) creepy & I think I might fetishize wealthy, terrible, entitled fictional douchebags, what else can I say? 
> 
> Oh, also, I don't have a beta reader, so although I'm pretty confident in my spelling and grammar, something could've slipped through the cracks. And formatting is not my strong suit, so sorry if it's a little wonky.
> 
> -SLVRNXCT


End file.
